


Rites of Autumn

by belmanoir



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He accepts the flowers graciously enough while her mother is in the room, but when Demeter is gone he throws them on the fire.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rites of Autumn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sionnain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sionnain/gifts).



> Thanks to spuffyduds for a speedy and encouraging beta.

He likes to watch her eat.

Their agreement is fixed, now--it doesn't make a shred of difference what or how much she eats. But even so, his hungry stare at meals is for her, not the heaping platters of delicacies or the jugs of spiced wine.

Sometimes when they go in to dinner, there's a huge bowl of pomegranates on the table. He'll watch her pick one up, dig in her thumbs, and split it apart. The juice runs over her fingers and drips onto the table, and when she puts the first seeds in her mouth--

She would do a lot more than eat a piece of fruit for the smile he gives her.

###

She brings him an armful of flowers, every year: anemones, saffron flowers, late-summer roses. She holds them carefully and tries to reaccustom herself to dark and cold and ceilings, and the way the stone under her bare feet tries to grow and flower but can't. She always forgets to bring shoes. The fire turns everything red and gold; she's been told those are the colors of autumn aboveground, too, although she's never seen it.

He accepts the flowers graciously enough while her mother is in the room, but when Demeter is gone he throws them on the fire. The room fills with smoke. Eyes stinging, she chokes on cypress ash and scorched hyacinths. The ache between her legs sharpens. She would never tell him, but she's grown to like the smell. She knows what comes next.

He grabs her. She's wearing this summer's favorite dress--it has to be her favorite, although she doesn't know how he could tell if she cheated. Frost-gray streaks spread over the shimmering green silk everywhere he touches her, and the embroidered vines and petals change color and rearrange themselves into dead flowers and withered leaves. Underneath, her body blossoms into life.

"On your knees," he says. She obeys him, the stone floor calming as it loses contact with the soles of her feet. Pushing aside his clothes, she takes him into her hands. "No," he says impatiently. "Your mouth."

Summer can offer nothing to match this, the dark, bitter taste of him. Afterwards, when he drags her up and kisses her, his mouth will taste like pomegranates. He must eat them, waiting for her. He's making noises now, like he's dying, like he's being resurrected and it _hurts_. She sucks harder.

It can't last: it's been six months for both of them. He says her name, a warning, and puts his hand on the back of her neck. He holds her there as he spills down her throat, making sure she swallows every drop.


End file.
